


your time will come (if you wait for it)

by defcontwo



Series: walls crashing down (or: the one with the dog) [1]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 15:13:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/pseuds/defcontwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dogs aren’t like pieces of furniture, you cannot just find one on the side of the road and decide you want to keep it for yourself.” Or: the one where Jason navigates relationships, urban angst and the art of taking in strays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your time will come (if you wait for it)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [minigami](https://archiveofourown.org/users/minigami/gifts).



> One day, María sent me a text that said BUT WHAT IF JASON HAD A PIZZA DOG ONLY INSTEAD OF PIZZA, TACOS. And that's it, that's how this fic happened. 
> 
> Partially unbeta-d, so all mistakes are my own.

Jason blinks awake, the sunlight shining through a sliver between dark curtains, directly into his eyes. It takes him a few seconds to remember -- comfy bed, red brick walls, and a pleasantly familiar sore feeling in his lower body. Right. He’s in Tim’s loft. Jason rolls over from the edge, where he lay curled into himself, to see Tim starfished out across the rest of the bed, all the blankets tangled around his legs. Beyond that, the bright red numbers of the alarm block glare out at him. 

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Jason shouts, flailing and falling off the bed and onto the floor with a thump. 

“What? What is it?” 

“I’m gonna be late for work,” Jason says, scrambling around for his uniform. “Fuck, I’m gonna be so late, I gotta go home and change, _fuck_.” 

“You’ve left clothes here, they’re over in that hamper.” 

Jason stops from where he was trying to hop into his black jeans. “Seriously?” 

“Yup.” 

Jason digs through the hamper to pull out a green plaid shirt that he hasn’t seen in weeks and puts it on hastily, stopping twice to redo the buttons because he did them up in the wrong order the first time. He pulls on his combat boots and digs for some train fare out of his utility belt. He’ll have to come by and pick up his suit and gear later because he’s not gonna risk bringing that shit to work. 

“How are you getting there?” Tim says, yawning through his words. 

“Subway. Hopefully I can pick up something to eat on my way.” 

“Got some leftover Chinese in the fridge, you could take it with you.” 

Jason turns and gives Tim an incredulous look. It’s amazing how deceivingly harmless Tim can look, white sheet gathered around his waist, dark circles standing out against his pale skin and if Jason didn’t know any better, he’d think Tim was every bit the high society playboy the media makes him out to be, up late from the parties he sometimes frequents for the sake of a carefully-crafted facade. 

The reality couldn’t be further from the truth. It was only hours ago that they’d been in the thick of it, fighting tooth and nail to take down a drug cartel while wildly outnumbered. Tim nearly took a bullet to the head, dodged at the last minute thanks to Jason’s warning shout, and then they were left standing amongst unconscious, zip-tied bodies, police warning sirens approaching from the distance. They’d taken off, adrenaline giving them that needed last push as they stumbled their way back to Tim’s loft; a journey that took longer than it had to because they kept stopping every few rooftops to push each other into dark alcoves, unable to keep their hands off each other long enough to get home. 

It galls Jason a little to realize how long they’ve been doing this. It was supposed to be one night to let off some steam and take their pent-up frustrations out on each other in ways that were marginally less destructive than usual. A bad mistake that became a habit; became a comfort, a balm to open wounds. 

He has had many months of this now, of waking up aching and complete, muscles sore in all the right places in a rich boy’s bed and there’s a cliche here, something about a Julia Roberts movie, but the sun is higher in the sky than it usually he is, he’s overstayed his welcome and his skin itches, like he can’t leave fast enough. 

He should have snuck out by now, dressed in the dark and slid out the window. Tim shouldn’t be lying there, sated and a little too pleased with himself in a way that kind of makes Jason want to punch him in the mouth a little, offering him food. 

Tim shrugs, like it’s nothing, like they have this conversation all the time. “I was about to throw it out anyways.” 

Jason snorts. His eyes are heavy, sleep-crusted, and he’s not awake enough for the sharp words forming in the back of his throat, fighting to get out. Always fighting, and _is that your superpower boy, too stupid to give up_ , words that still ring in the back of his mind, fuck knows they should put them on his gravestone next time. 

“Great,” Jason snaps out but it’s half-hearted at best, irritation that’s more routine than anything else. “If I get food poisoning, it’s all your fault.” 

“And I’ll feel really bad about it, honest,” Tim says dryly. 

“Get fucked, Drake,” Jason says over his shoulder, trudging into the kitchen. True to Tim’s word, there’s a box of chicken chow fun in the fridge, alongside about a million ready-made dinners. Jason snags a plastic fork from the counter, littered with crumpled take-out menus, and _jesus christ_ , does this kid ever cook, and heads out the front door without another word. 

He eats the cold Chinese food as the subway clatters along to his stop, ignoring the dirty looks from the father with three kids across the aisle. He’s wrung out and not exactly looking his best, not with his wrinkled clothes and deep bags under his eyes, and certainly not with the giant hickey under his chin that he spotted in the reflection from the train window. But like he gives a shit, really. The father is wearing a t-shirt bearing the slogan of some local conservative church and Jason wastes half a minute daydreaming, considering what would happen if he leaned over and confessed to getting thoroughly fucked by another man well into the morning hours. Jason pictures how the man’s eyes would widen, how he’d pull back and into himself, tell his kids not to make eye contact. Jason laughs softly to himself at the image.

Not worth the fucking effort, really. 

He gets off the train at his station, not looking at the other passengers as he leaves, and chucks the takeout box into a trash can along the platform before thundering his way up the steps and out onto the sidewalk. 

Jason takes in the sight of the diner and braces himself, already wishing for caffeine in his system. He’s got a double shift ahead of him and not for the first time, Jason regrets the vow he made to himself. So many months ago, when he’d hit rock bottom, it had seemed like the only way forward. 

Now, staring down the barrel of way too many hours serving assholes for minimal pay, he’s not quite so sure. 

“Once more unto the breach, Todd.” 

\+ 

“Hey, I’d like to take my break now,” Jason says, slapping some menus back onto the counter. There’s enough of a lull in business that no one would miss him if he fucked off for ten or twenty minutes to take some time for himself. 

“No can do, kiddo,” the cook says, raising a hand to point to somewhere behind Jason’s shoulder. “You got someone in your section.” 

Jason swears softly to himself. His section was empty all of two minutes ago, how the hell didn’t he hear or see someone coming in. 

“What kind of asshole,” Jason mutters to himself, picking up a menu and turning around only to find out exactly what kind of asshole is sitting in his section. It’s Tim with a small black duffle at his feet that Jason would bet dollars to donuts contains the gear he left behind at Tim’s loft. 

“What, you couldn’t have just dropped it off and left?” Jason asks, tossing the menu onto the laminated table top. Irritation scrapes at him like two day old stubble -- he doesn’t like seeing Tim here in his place of employment, in this shitty diner in the Bowery. Tim should stick out like a sore thumb, the well-mannered yuppie, but he doesn’t -- he blends in just like everyone else and it’s pissing Jason off. 

“I was hungry,” Tim says simply. He opens up the menu, scanning the contents quickly. “How’re the omelets?” 

Jason shrugs. He could lie, but. “Eh.” 

“That good, huh? I’ll just have a grilled cheese with fries, then.” 

“Coming right up.” 

Jason goes to place Tim’s order and then spends the next ten minutes by the counter watching him. Tim, for his part, makes a very good show of looking like a local who has never met Jason before a day in his life. He’s affected a bored stance, slouching in the booth while flipping through what looks like a _Star Trek_ paperback. Fucking Nerd Wonder, right there. 

When Tim’s food arrives, Jason picks up the plate and walks over, setting it down with the check maybe a bit harder than he normally would. The edges of Tim’s lips quirk as he tugs a napkin out from the dispenser. “Thanks.” 

Now that he’s up and close, Jason can see the shadow of a bruise on Tim’s cheek from where one of the scumbags they took down last night got in a lucky shot, before Tim knocked him out with his bo staff. The tips of his hair are still wet from a shower, curling at the edges -- the lazy ass must have lounged in bed all day doing casework, and isn’t _that_ a hell of a mental image, Tim wandering around his loft stark naked, pinning files and evidence trails to his corkboard. 

“I get a break as soon as you clear out.” 

“Yeah?” Tim says, still not looking at Jason. “For how long?” 

“Twenty minutes. Can push it to thirty.” 

“Guess I’ll see you then.” 

“Guess you will,” Jason says, walking away. He makes a project out of refilling the salt and pepper shakers at the counter, giving himself something to do that isn’t watching Tim like a hawk. 

Finally Tim finishes his food and reaches into his wallet to pay the check, tossing some money onto the tabletop before slinging the duffle of his shoulder bag and walking out. Jason ambles over at his own pace, picking up the check to deposit into the register and pocketing the unsurprisingly hefty tip. 

He waits a minute and then another, and then he takes his break, heading out into the back of the alleyway behind the diner. Tim is waiting for him, leaning against the hard brick walls of the back building, the duffle at his feet. 

“Took you long enough,” Tim says, before reeling Jason in with a fist in the front of his shirt, kissing him soundly, while the other hand reaches for Jason’s belt buckle. 

There’s a tiny, grimy window in the kitchen that looks out onto this alley and there’s the slightest of chances that they could be seen, and maybe Jason could lose his job but hell, maybe not. A man’s got the right to do what he pleases on his half hour break. 

“What, you’re not gonna romance me a little?” 

Tim scoffs, warm hand slipping beneath Jason’s briefs, settling around Jason’s length and squeezing, eliciting a hiss. “Do you want me to?” 

_Maybe_. “Fuck no.” 

Tim grins up at him, sharp and intent, and who would have thought that Timothy Wayne, with his bespoke suits and carefully bland business persona could be such a filthy kisser, his two day old stubble scraping along Jason’s skin. 

“Didn’t think so.” 

They change places, Jason bracing his hands against the wall, letting the dirt get caught under his fingernails. He’ll have to wash his hands before going back to work. 

“Do you have -- “ 

“Yeah, got a packet in my wallet, hold on.” 

“Freaking Boy Scout right here, Tim,” Jason says, and Tim huffs a laugh. 

“I don’t think the Boy Scouts of America would approve of this.” 

Tim’s got his hands slid under the waistband of Jason’s jeans, about to push them down when Jason gets this sense of dislocation, and it hits him all at once, the dark alleyway and the warm, familiar weight of Tim behind him, and this sharp want out of nowhere that he never asked for, never wanted, but is there all the same: this ache for how badly Jason wants for this boy about to fuck him to look at him with a little more care than Tim does. 

“Stop.” 

“What?” Tim says, disoriented, voice thick with arousal. 

Jason takes in a shuddering breath, part of him wishing he could go back and carry on, that they could just fuck and move forward and it wouldn’t be a big deal, but it’s too late -- the thought’s already in his head and he can’t get it out. “I don’t want to do this.” 

“It was your idea,” Tim says, but he’s not annoyed, Jason can tell from the lilt of amusement. Tim shifts his hands above Jason’s waist, hooking his chin over Jason’s shoulder. “Everything all right?” 

Jason bites back a groan because of course Tim’s gotta be that guy, the kind of guy who will make sure everything’s okay because that’s just who he is -- it’s never meant anything more than that. So what if his scrawny bastard of a replacement turns out to be a better man than most scumbags out there. Big fucking deal, hand the boy a medal. 

“I can’t do this anymore.” Jason keeps his gaze fixed on the bricks in front of him, hating Tim and himself a little more for making this harder, but he promised himself a long time ago that he’d stop getting caught up in caring too much about people who care too little in return. It’s better to cut it off now before it gets any worse, before he has to admit that the line he wasn’t meant to cross has long since been jumped over. 

“Yeah, I think we established that.” 

“No, I meant.” Jason swallows, his mouth like sandpaper. “You and me screwing, I can’t do that anymore.” 

“Oh.” Tim steps back, out of Jason’s space. “I see.” 

_I see_ like he’s commenting on the goddamn weather. Jason balls a fist to keep from punching the wall. Tim is just standing there, hovering on the edge of Jason’s space, close enough still to reach out and touch, warm skin and worn denim, and Jason doesn’t know _why_ , why he wouldn’t just leave. He needs Tim to leave because he’s about five seconds from changing his mind and he can’t -- he won’t do this to himself. 

“Guess you’ve got no more business here, then, Timbo. Run along back to your nest.” 

“Yeah, guess not,” Tim says, and his voice sounds strange, distant in a way that Jason can’t place, and here he thought he’d had all the bastard’s moods figured out by now. “I’ll see you around, Jason.” 

“Yeah.” 

Jason waits, listening to Tim’s footsteps as he walks out of the alleyway, before blowing out a breath and caving in on himself, hanging his head between his braced arms. “Yeah. Well, that was fuckin’ great.” 

He spends another few minutes there, braced against the wall and taking in deep breaths, before he picking up the black duffle and calmly walking back into work. 

The rest of his shift passes quickly. 

\+ 

It's about half past two and hot as ever, humid in the way that makes it feel like even his kevlar is sticking to him, and Jason should be tired as all fuck but instead he's wired. Wide awake and running on adrenaline, the kind of mood where what he needs most is a good fight, a good fuck, or a good taco. There's no more fights to be had, all the vermin already crawled back into their holes, and as for the second one, that’s not exactly an option anymore, a corner of Jason’s mind he’s put a giant out of order sign on. It looks like he’s gonna have to settle for the taco. 

Settle, he thinks, snorting and pulling out a grapple as he heads for Ana’s, a hole in the wall taqueria that stays open until 3 AM and has the best tacos in town -- that's hardly settling. At least the tacos don't get snippy with him. 

Jason swings down to street level, taking a minute to pause and look up and down the way because it's Gotham and you never can be too careful. But it's almost eerily quiet, nothing but the smell of exhaust and garbage rising up from the sewers, the flickering glow of a broken street light revealing nothing out of the ordinary. 

For about half a second he could have sworn he heard something rustle down the alleyway, but a quick inspection gives him nothing, and his stomach is already heeding the call of the food awaiting him and decides to make its presence known with a loud grumble. 

Jason swings the door open and jogs down the steps into the taquería, greeting Ana in Spanish and making his usual order. She gives his exaggerated roguish grin the usual eye roll before heading for the kitchen, and Jason takes advantage of the warm atmosphere to tug off his gauntlets and run a hand through his sweaty hair. The noise in the alleyway stays with him, that rustling sound - he tells himself that he should stop dwelling on it, that this level of paranoia leads down the path of Bruce Wayne, so Jason shakes his head and takes a seat at the counter. 

He wolfs down his meal in record time, gives Ana a grateful smile and a healthy sized tip, service industry solidarity in the form of a few extra bucks, and makes his way out into the night. Without thinking about it, Jason turns down into the alleyway again, unable to resist his own curiosity. 

"This is the kind of shit that got you killed, dumbass," he mutters to himself, stepping silently into the alleyway. The rustling sound comes again as Jason creeps closer towards a box that's been left beside the dumpster. Whatever it is, it can't be very big, but he pulls out a knife anyway just in case, and then immediately feels about ten shades of stupid once he looks into the box and finds two, round brown eyes staring up at him. It's a puppy -- black and white and too small to be left in a box in Park Row, and Jason curses to himself because now he's gotta deal with this shit. 

"Hey, little buddy," Jason says, awkwardly because he knows exactly nothing about dogs except ones this small don't just get abandoned. Glad for his gauntlets, he slowly extends a hand for the puppy to sniff. The puppy snuffles at him before licking at the kevlar, and Jason lets out a sigh of relief. "Okay, you're not gonna bite me. Awesome. Just, uh. Bear with me. Christ, I'm talking to a dog, it's not like you can understand me, fuck." 

Jason picks up the box, dog and all, and heads home. "This is just for tonight, you hear? Just until I can get to the shelter when it opens in the morning." 

The dog snuffles again and Jason sighs. "How do I get myself into these messes?" 

\+ 

"No collar, no chip, but with all of the necessary shots and medical procedures already taken care of -- typical, just what I thought." 

Michelle, the vet who runs the local animal shelter, shakes her head and tugs at the ends of her dark dreadlocks. “Days like this, I’m reminded why I like dogs better than people.”

“What? What is it?” 

Michelle holds a hand out in front of the dog’s snout, letting it take the time to sniff around her hand before bumping at her hand and then licking it. She pats it, reaching around to scratch behind the dog’s ears. 

“Someone buys a puppy, sometimes as a present -- takes it home to whoever they meant to give the dog to only to find that the person sure does love dogs, but not the dangerous kind like this. See, she’s a mix breed, yeah? No telling exactly what although I can see some pitbull in her, that’s for sure. Or someone buys a dog only to find out that their landlord won’t let them keep it. Which is what I’m guessing happened here because the dog’s a little older than you’d expect. Probably the landlord didn’t cotton on for a while there. Either way, different story, same ending, kid.” 

“And so what, they just abandon it? Why not just take it directly to you?”

Michelle shrugs. “Fuck knows why people do what they do, Jason. She’s cute, though, and seems to be at least a little trained -- who knows, maybe she’ll get lucky and someone will want to take her home.” 

Jason frowns. “You sound skeptical.” 

“This is Gotham, kid. Folks pick up sticks and abandon pets all of the time. We’ve got a lot of abandoned pets and not enough people willing to take them in.” 

_This is not your problem, Jason Peter Todd_ , he tells himself, only the dog keeps looking at him with those big sad eyes, and bumping at his hand with its nose. There’s just something about the idea of a creature so small left alone in a dirty Gotham alleyway, an image he can’t shake out of his head because it hits just a little too close to home. And yeah, it’s dumb because here he is identifying with a _dog_ which has to be a new low point, but what the hell, right. It’s not like his life could get any worse. 

“What if I kept her?” 

Michelle slants him a serious look. “You sure about that? Don’t get me wrong, I’d be thrilled to see her go home with someone today but getting a dog isn’t like getting a goldfish. It’s a commitment.” 

Jason thinks of his long hours at the diner and even longer hours out on the streets, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, and knows there’s no way he can say yes. It’d be stupid and selfish and he knows that, and yet he can’t just walk away -- knows that if he did, he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it. 

“Yeah, I’m sure.” 

“All right,” Michelle says. She eyeballs Jason, and he tries his best to look like he’s not as much of a mess as he usually is, like he’s someone responsible enough to let walk out of here with a dog. Michelle’s eyes soften, like she’s seeing something Jason can’t, and nods decisively. “Let me draw up the paperwork.” 

Jason leans over and scratches at the dog’s belly. “Guess it’s gonna be you and me now, Taco.” 

“Taco?”

Jason hunches his shoulders slightly. “Yeah, uh. That’s where I found her. Outside of a taqueria.” 

“Well, I’ve heard worse names for a dog,” Michelle says. She smiles at him, something warm and familiar, like Babs on a cold Gotham night many years ago. “For what it’s worth, kid, I think you two are gonna be just fine.” 

“That makes one of us,” Jason says to Taco, voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper as Michelle makes her way into her office. Taco just wags her tail. 

“Yeah, great contribution, buddy.” 

\+ 

“I need help.” 

“I’m sorry, who is this? You sound like someone I know but I’m quite sure that I taught that someone the value of the word please.” 

Jason resists the urge to bang the phone receiver against the kitchen counter, and instead sags against it, tipping his head back onto the cupboards. Alfred’s voice takes him way back and it’s like pushing at a bruise that he knows isn’t going to heal any time soon. There was a time when Alfred’s voice meant safe and home and comfort, and he hears him, pictures Alfred answering the house phone in the kitchen at the manor where they used to eat cookies and discuss books, and it’s all Jason can do to stand up straight. 

Across the kitchen, Taco is chasing her own tail, knocking over books and chairs alike. He hopes she’s house-trained but with his luck, fuck knows. Probably not. 

Jason sighs into the receiver. “I need your help, _please_ , Lord Pennyworth, master of manners.” 

“Once more, without the sarcasm, Master Jason.” 

“What if I was bleeding to death in some gutter right now, Alf? How’d you feel about that?”

“That’s not funny and you know it, Master Jason.”

It is, a little. Funny in the way he’s only worth more than the scum on the back of their heels when he’s dead and dying. Funny like how the last time he got laid up after a fight, he could have sworn he heard Bruce rummaging around his apartment and settling in by his bedside as he swam in and out of consciousness, but when he woke up, there was no one, just a warm seat and an empty apartment. Funny like how Bruce hasn’t had a goddamn word to say to him since, not about Tim, not about anything. 

Roll on snare. Jason Todd’s fucking hilarious life. 

Taco knocks over a pile of books Jason had stacked perilously high, the paperbacks crashing down and around her, as she skitters away and barks, sharp and loud. 

“Master Jason, was that a _dog_?” Alfred sounds incredulous which -- yeah, Jason’ll give him that. 

“Yup. Got myself a puppy here only I don’t know what the fuck to do with her.” 

“How do you just happen upon acquiring a dog, Master Jason? Dogs aren’t like pieces of furniture, you cannot just find one on the side of the road and decide you want to keep it for yourself.”

Jason laughs, and it’s an ugly sound, echoing harshly over the receiver. “Really? ‘Cause I could’ve sworn that was exactly how B wound up with me.” 

“Are you suggesting that there’s a likeness between yourself and Master Bruce?” 

“No, I am _not_ \-- look, I found her in a box in an alleyway in the Bowery last night, the vet at the shelter didn’t think it was likely that she’d find a home, so I took her home with me only I got here and I don’t know what to do, all right? But I promise you this, if you ever catch me callin’ you because I took home some black haired blue-eyed miscreant from the street, you have my permission to put me out of my misery.” 

“Very good, Master Jason. I’ll be over shortly.” 

A click and then a dial-tone. 

Jason stares at the phone before turning his gaze to where Taco is currently gnawing on a copy of _The Great Gatsby_. 

Jason shrugs. “Fuck it. I hated that book anyways.” 

\+ 

An hour later, there’s a knock at the door and Jason swears that Alfred’s well-mannered impatience can be heard through the wood. 

Taco follows closely at his footsteps, close enough that he almost trips over her as he makes his way over to swing the door open. 

“Hey, Alf.” 

“My, my. You really did get yourself a dog.” 

Jason hunches, uncomfortable under Alfred’s scrutinizing gaze. There’s something about Alfred’s presence that manages to both comfort him and make him feel about one foot tall. “What, did you think I lied about it to get you to come over here and clean my apartment?” 

Alfred casts a look around Jason’s place, which somehow looks more cramped and pathetic through the eyes of someone else, and Jason winces. 

“I wouldn’t dare, Master Jason. Although I might suggest that you consider relocating if you intend to keep this dog, as this place is entirely too small.” 

“Yeah, well, I would if I could _afford_ \-- “ Jason snaps out, before stopping, the burn of a flush rising up the back of his neck. 

“I’d point that there is always a place for you at home but I have no doubt that it would fall on deaf ears.” 

“I’m not going -- it’s not, it’s not home for me. Not anymore.” 

Alfred’s eyes soften and he sags a little, almost imperceptibly, and it makes him look older somehow. “I thought as much, Master Jason.” 

Jason sighs, feels an apology worming its way out of the back of his throat but apologizing for what, he doesn’t know. He looks away because he can’t stand the look on Alfred’s face. 

Looks away and looks straight at the clock and _oh shit_. “Uh, fuck, Alf? Just how busy are you today?” 

“What is it, Master Jason?” 

“I kind of...have to go to work.” He shifts, feels like a small child about to be scolded, knows that he must look like one the way he’s squirming under Alfred’s gaze. 

Alfred waves a hand at him. “Very well, go. This is hardly the first Wayne pet that I’ve been tasked to take care of by busy, careless owners.”

Jason’s mouth opens to argue that he’s not anything like them but Alfred just raises his eyebrows, and Jason blows out a breath, defeated. “You’re the best, Alf.” 

“I’m aware, Master Jason. Oh, Master Jason, may I inquire as to the dog’s name?”

“Uhhh,” Jason says, shoving on his jacket and reaching for his keys. “Taco?”

Alfred gives him such a disgusted look that he’s still laughing about it halfway down the block. 

\+ 

“Someone in your section, Todd,” the cook calls out and Jason’s back stiffens, a moment of deja vu, and he hopes to a God he doesn’t believe in that it’s not Tim. 

“It’s not, by any chance, a pasty and yet surprisingly attractive white boy with sharp cheekbones about my age, is it?” 

José, the cook, just turns and gives Jason an incredulous look. “No, asshole. It’s a hot redhead in a wheelchair, now go do your job and stop trawling for twinks.” 

Jason turns around and sure enough, Babs is sitting at table five, menu open and her phone sitting next to it on the table. 

“What fresh hell,” Jason mutters to himself, before going over. “What can I get you, pretty lady?” 

Babs looks up from the menu and arches an eyebrow at him that makes him want to push a little, to flirt outrageously and get her to smile at him like she used to. “Coffee, black, and a moment of your time.” 

Jason chances a glance behind him but no one is paying attention. “You have it.”

“Alfred called me about an hour ago.”

 _Traitor_. 

“What he told me -- well, it’s given me an excuse to do something I’ve wanted to do for a while now.” 

Babs draws a slip of paper from inside her jacket and pushes it across the table towards him. Jason picks it up carefully and reads it. 

“This is an address? The old Clocktower, right?”

“That’s where I live. I’ve got plenty of room for two more.” 

Jason shakes his head. “I don’t need your charity, Babs.” 

Babs reaches out, grabs a hold of his wrist and reels him in close, and he could probably pull away, sure, but her grip is stronger than it looks and it’d take some doing. 

“I’m not Bruce, little bird. I’ve done things that he would never do and I’ve thought of doing things that I’m sure you’ve probably done. You and me? We’re family. I won’t be the kind of family who continues to leave you out in the cold when it’s the last thing you need. I will always regret not being there for you, regret not being enough when I could have been more.”

“So, what? This is about your guilt?” Jason hisses. 

Babs shakes her head. “This is about empathy. We understand each other better than you want to admit, I think.” 

Open door and the flash of a gun and beneath it all, the Joker’s high screech of amusement. Jason winces, remembering how small she had looked in her hospital bed, remembering how he didn’t think it was right, that someone as big and bright as Batgirl should ever look like that. The girl that he knew before is not the woman who sits before him -- she is something older, something with a far stronger core than that, and she’s right. Maybe they do understand each other. 

“Didn’t take you for a dog person,” Jason says, and Babs eases up on her grip, letting him go. 

“I’m not. You’re in charge of cleaning up any messes, little bird.” 

“You got yourself a deal, pretty lady.” 

\+ 

He never sleeps well the first night in a new place. It’s something about not knowing all the exits by heart just yet, about feeling closed in and off balance, and it always brings on the worst of his nightmares. 

He shakes himself awake and is surprised to find that it is cold in his room, the wind blowing through an open window, because he is miles away in a burning warehouse, the flames licking up along the sides of his body, with nothing but the Joker’s laughter keening high in his ears. 

“Fuck,” Jason says, dragging a hand through sweat-soaked hair and leaning down, pressing his forehead to his knees and dragging in deep, gasping breaths. 

There’s a weight at his side, pressing in on him, nuzzling at his arm. Taco shoves her head under his bowed body and sticks her face in his face, licking his nose and it’s cold and a little gross and so utterly unexpected that Jason has to laugh a little as he lets up, shifts and lets her settle across him as he breathes in deep. 

“Sorry, buddy, bad dreams.” 

He lies there over an hour, waiting for sleep to come but he’s still wrapped up in his nightmares, afraid of falling back asleep, so he finally gives in and admits defeat. He heaves himself out of bed, Taco leaping down and padding after him as he creeps into the main living area to make himself some late night tea. 

There’s noises coming from the living room, a light on and the low rumble of the TV. Jason creeps in, only to find that there’s someone he doesn’t know currently occupying the couch, barely paying the TV any mind with a newspaper in her lap. She’s staring at the newspaper intensely, pen in one hand as she makes notes, tongue sticking out as she concentrates. 

“So, you must be Cassandra.”

She doesn’t look up. She knew he was there all along; she probably knew from the moment he hopped out of bed where he was headed. “Hello, Jason. Call me Cass.” 

“Can’t sleep either, huh?”

Cass shakes her head. “Long night. House fire. It was -- ugly.” 

Jason shudders a little, part of him still trapped back in his nightmare. “Want tea? Uh, I was just about to make some.”

She looks up at him, a small smile stealing across her face, her dark hair escaping from its ponytail to fall into her eyes. He knows from the stories what she’s capable of and even if he didn’t, he’d know it from the way she carries herself, how even in rest she still looks like she could snap him in half if it was necessary. But still, she smiles at him, looking more open and vulnerable than any Wayne kid has any right to, and Jason finds himself smiling back hesitantly, his bad mood falling away some. 

“I would like some white tea, yes. Thank you.”

“Good, because that’s exactly what I was coming in here to make.” 

Taco follows him at his heels, a habit that he’s coming to realize he’s not going to break her of any time soon, as he busies himself making the tea in the kitchen. He looks down at her, not half as annoyed as he’s playing off as. “You know, I’m going to trip over you one day.” 

She just looks up at him and then trots over to the drawer where he’d shoved the dog food and stares at it. Jason rolls his eyes, walking over to dig out a treat and throw it to her. 

Jason brings the steaming mugs over to the couch, setting them on the coffee table before sitting on the couch next to Cass. Taco follows them, hopping up and sitting between them, shoving her face under the newspaper in Cass’s lap. 

“Sorry,” Jason says, a grimace crossing his face. “I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing training a dog.” 

“I don’t mind,” Cass says, scratching behind Taco’s ears. “I like dogs. Some people -- some people are afraid of them. But it’s not the dog’s -- fault if they turn out bad. It’s how they were treated.” 

She’s talking about herself as much as she’s talking about him, and still, any reply gets stuck in Jason’s throat, and he reaches for his mug of tea to give himself something to do with his hands. Tears prick at the back of his eyes and he blinks them away, feeling foolish and small and far too young to be as weary and angry as he is. 

Sometimes it’s like the anger is too much for him, like it’s too big to fit inside his skin and one day, it’s going to burst out and tear him open, leaving him bleeding on the dirty Gotham pavement, nothing but a gaping wound left behind. 

Cass is looking at him like she can see right through him and she probably can, come to think of it, and he doesn’t know if that’s terrifying or comforting. “It’s okay, you know. I’m okay, most of the time. You will be too.” 

Jason nods, breathing in the steam from the tea and taking a deep sip. “So, what’s with the newspapers?”

“Good practice. I like reading the job listings. They can be...interesting.” 

“Job listings, huh? Looking for gainful employment?”

“No,” Cass says primly, “no need. My father is wealthy.” 

Jason huffs a laugh. “Ain’t that the truth.” 

Cass stifles a yawn, folding up the newspaper and putting it in Jason’s lap as she untangles herself from Taco. “I guess I am tired. Good night, Jason. It was nice to finally talk.”

“Yeah,” Jason says, watching her go. “Good night.”

Taco hops back up and plops herself on his lap, and Jason has to dig the newspaper out from under her, tugging it out. He looks at some of the classifieds ads that Cass had circled -- most of them were just plain zany, like the one from an elderly Buddhist monk who claimed he was in need of a young, female companion to travel the world with. 

But a few were for some decent sounding jobs. 

About halfway down the page, there’s an ad circled for an assistant’s job at a community center for at-risk children in the Bowery. “Huh,” Jason says, ripping up the newspaper and tearing out the ad. “What do you think, Taco?”

Taco snores, head heavy on his lap and he’s pretty sure that his leg is going to fall asleep any minute now. 

“I’m gonna take that as a yes.” 

 

\+ 

Jason wipes his sweaty hands on his black jeans and hopes that he doesn’t look as nervous as he feels before knocking on the door of a one Fiona Bell. 

The door swings open to reveal a woman in her mid-forties, with a kind face and sharp eyes, and what looks like bright pink chalk tracked up and down the brown skin of her forearms. 

“Fiona Bell? I’m here about the assistant’s position.” 

“Yeah? Thank God, can you assist me with this monster,” Fiona says, before moving aside to reveal a five year old girl knee-deep in a box of colorful chalk, coloring all over the cement floor. 

“Uhhh, don’t think I know how,” Jason says, more than a little hesitant and doubting his conviction because what the hell was he thinking that he could work around kids when he’s barely out of his teenage years himself, and fucked up to boot. 

Fiona laughs. “Yeah, that’s what they all say. Sorry about this, my daughter doesn’t normally come to work with me but her father couldn’t take her today.”

Jason shakes his head, shoving his idle hands into his jean pockets and looking around the room. It’s a cluttered, little office off the side of the main center, filled with file cabinets and littered with markers and pens and sports equipment. “No problem.”

Fiona wipes the chalk off her arms with a paper towel before walking over to him and extending a hand to shake. “I’m Fiona Bell, what was your name again?” 

“Jason Todd.”

“And what are your qualifications, Jason?” 

Jason swallows hard. Give him a bomb to disarm, no problem, but this? His hands are shaking and he resists the urge to shove them in his pockets again. “Honestly? Just the fact that I grew up around here. And I’m bettin’ that this being Gotham and the Bowery to boot, you don’t exactly have the best professionals knockin’ down your door.”

“You’re right, I don’t,” Fiona says, fixing him with an assessing gaze. She reminds him of Alfred, a little, and he fights not to squirm. 

Jason shrugs. “I’m great with computers. All technology, really, if you need something fixed, I can fix it. If you need something built, I can build it.” 

“Got any references I can call?”

“Yeah, uh,” Jason says, digging a slip of paper with Barbara’s number on it from his jacket pocket. “Barbara Gordon. Here’s her number.” 

“Barbara Gordon? The commissioner’s daughter?” 

Surprise flits across her face before she smooths it away into something coolly professional. It rankles, a little, to have to rely on Babs’ good word like this but it’s not like he’s got a whole lot of other options. 

“Yeah. She, uh. She used to tutor me in school.” 

“All right,” Fiona says, nodding sharply. “I’ll give her a call and I’ll let you know. Come back this time tomorrow and I’ll give you my answer.” 

The next day, Fiona shoves the makings of a swing set at him and tells him to get to work. 

It’s good work, better work than he ever thought he’d land -- he is still struggling, always, every day but the job at the center doesn’t make him feel like shit from the onset like everything else. Like his rift with Bruce, like the empty space where Tim used to be. It makes him feel useful, not useful like one of Bruce’s tools, but useful like at the end of the day, he’s done something worth his time. 

It helps. 

\+ 

Deep, familiar laughter that both grates and warms greets Jason as he trudges up the stairs into the Clocktower, and he has to stop halfway up the steps, grounding himself. Breathes in and out, counts to ten, lets the anger out because he’s pretty sure that if he throws Dickie Bird out of the house via crashing him through the window, Babs might get a little bit pissed off. 

Dick is sprawled on his back in the middle of the floor, Taco bouncing around and on top of him, as Dick tosses a tennis ball back and forth between his hands. 

Jason stands just on the inside of the room and stews a little, hates how Dick finds it so easy to fit in anywhere he goes, how he can be here in Babs and Jason’s home and play with Jason’s dog like it’s the easiest thing in the world. What must it be like, to be so at home in your own skin? 

“You’re late, Jay.” 

“Where’s Babs?”

“Star City. Dinah needed her. She left you a note on the counter.” 

Jason skirts the living room, making for the kitchen counter where sure enough, there’s a note penned out in Barbara’s careful scrawl. 

_Team emergency, have to help Dinah out with something back home. Called Dick in to dogsit while you were at work. Play nice, little bird._

Jason scowls at the paper, crumpling it up in his hand and tossing it at the garbage, where it makes a ring around the edge of the can before falling off the side and onto the floor. 

“So, Taco? Taco and I were just playing some catch.” 

“Catch,” Jason says flatly. 

“Yeah, you know, when you throw the ball and the dog goes after it…”

“I’m familiar with the concept,” Jason snaps. “But see, Taco doesn’t play catch. She watches the ball go, runs after it to stare at it for a while, before walking away. Kind of defeats the purpose.” 

There’s something tight coiling inside of him, jealous and ugly and foolish, and he knows it, knows that he’s acting foolish but he just can’t stop, like picking at a scab. 

“Well, maybe she just likes me better,” Dick says, and he’s going for light-hearted but Jason can see from the way his jaw snaps shut, the way his gaze goes hunted that he knows he’s fucked up, but it’s too late, the words are already out there. 

“Yeah, well, doesn’t everyone?” 

“Jay, I didn’t mean it like that -- “

“No,” Jason says, crossing his arms across his chest, wondering how small he can make himself, if he can make himself small enough to disappear. “You never mean it. You don’t even have to try, do you?” 

“Fuck off,” Dick says, and he is furious, suddenly, and the back of Jason’s neck burns. He rolls up and down on the balls of feet, a little bit thrilled because this is exactly what he wanted, he wanted to push and make Dick angry too, make his carefree smile twist into something ugly and dark. 

“Don’t give me that, Jason. You have no idea what my life is like, so don’t tell me I have it easy just because you have it tougher.” 

“Oh, boo hoo -- Daddy Bats doesn’t hug me enough, doesn’t trust me enough. Get in line, that’s everyone’s story and you know it. The man doesn’t trust anyone but himself.” 

“Who says I was talking about Bruce?” Dick says, quiet and intense, before his shoulders slump and he lets out a breath, defeated. “You know, I swear there was a time when I used to know how to talk to you.” 

Harsh winter wind blowing into his face, stinging his eyes, and he had felt ridiculous that day they went skiing together, wrapped up in an expensive winter coat, but it wasn’t so bad in the end, Dick’s arm warm where it wrapped around his shoulders. It surprised him how nice it felt, feeling like he had a brother. 

But. That was before. 

“Long time ago.” 

“Yeah, I know.” Dick sighs, throws the tennis ball across the room. 

Taco scampers after it, sliding along the smooth floors and almost crashing into the wall in the process before she stares at it, picks it up in her mouth, turns and stares at them, and then abruptly drops the ball and runs back over to them, leaving it all the way over in the corner. 

Dick lets out a defeated cry and Jason has to cover his mouth to hide the smile, but he still feels it pulling at the edges of his mouth, knows that his eyes must be crinkling. 

“I told you.” 

“Only your dog would be so contrary.” 

“Yeah, she doesn’t sit properly either.” 

“She doesn’t -- what?”

Jason nods at Taco. “Tell her to sit.” 

Dick flips up from the floor, and Jason takes half a minute to be annoyed about it but it’s not showing off for Dick, not really, not in any way that’s intentional. It’s just how Dick is, showing off is second nature to him, and maybe Jason needs to learn to let go of that a little. 

Not all of the way because Dickie Bird is as Dickie Bird does, and Jason still wants to throw him out the window a little but well. He’s growing as a person, or at least so he tells himself. Dig your heels in deep, whisper it often enough, and maybe one day he can make it true through sheer fucking willpower. 

Dick looks down at Taco, puts his hands on his hips, tries to look authoritorial and just manages to look ridiculous. “Taco, sit.” 

Taco flops down to the ground with a thud, belly to the hardwood floor. She looks up, expectantly, as if asking for food. Cass has definitely been spoiling her. 

“That’s….that’s not a sit.” 

Jason laughs at the look on Dick’s face, has to lean over and put his hands on the scruffy, worn knees of his jeans and laughs until his stomach aches a little with it. “Nope. The dog doesn’t know how to sit.”

“What kind of dog doesn’t know how to sit?”

Jason smiles, big and wide and a whole lot proud. “Mine doesn’t.” 

Dick just shakes his head. “You contrary motherfucker. You ruined her, she’s just like you.”

“Damn straight. Right, Taco? Taco, sit.” 

Taco leaps up onto her feet before promptly flopping herself all the way back down. 

“Atta girl,” Jason says. 

“Please never have children,” Dick says. 

Jason just laughs harder. 

\+ 

“You seem distracted today,” Fiona says, reaching over and poking Jason in the cheek. He’s sitting and staring at a pile of paperwork, filtering through it -- or at least trying to, but he’s not really seeing any of it. 

“Oh, uh -- my dog, she must have ate something that didn’t agree with her when I wasn’t looking on our morning walk today. She got sick, I had to call over my sister to stay with her and make sure she’s okay,” Jason says, shrugging a little, trying to pass it off as if it’s not bothering him as much as it is. It’s silly, he knows, because dogs do shit like this all of the time but it still worries at him, a lifetime of leaping to the worst possible conclusion hard to shake off. 

“Tell you what, you can head out as soon as you’re done with that paperwork. I’d let you go now but we need to send our financial reports to WE before the day is out so they know we’ve made good on their funding allocations.”

Jason pauses the pen over a sheet of paper in mid-stroke, frowning. “WE?” 

“Yeah, you know they give us our funding.”

“No, I didn’t know that,” Jason says. Thunder is pounding in his ears, an image of Bruce looming over him, and Jason swallows thickly. He’s been here for _months_ , how could he not know that. 

“Yeah, we’re part of their Neon Knights Initiative. We don’t exactly advertise it because folks around here trust Bruce Wayne about as far as they can throw him -- and they ain’t wrong, trust me on that, but for as long as the money’s good, the money’s good, you know?”

Jason nods. “Yeah, of course.” 

Fiona crosses her arms across her chest, a quizzical look crossing her face. “I can’t believe you didn’t know that.”

Jason crosses a few items off his list, red pen scratching across the surface of the heavy paper, and tries not to look as shaken as he is. “Why can’t you believe that?” 

“Because I was told you heard about the job from someone at WE.” 

Jason’s stomach twists and it could be Bruce, it could, but he’s not seeing Bruce, he’s seeing Tim, Tim in white sheets, naked and warm, and curving a sharp smile into the crook of Jason’s neck, and it’s been so many months and yet he’s still completely gone, thrown back at the thought of him. 

Jason shakes himself, stretches his arms over his head, and feigns disinterest. “Guess you heard wrong.” 

+

Jason rushes home from the center, taking the seven flights up the Clocktower as quickly as possible. He’s out of breath when he finally reaches the top, taking a second to collect himself before fishing out his keys and letting himself in. 

“Hey, Cass! How’s our girl?” Jason calls out, tossing his keys into the dish on the kitchen counter and turning the corner into the main room, only to find that Cass isn’t there at all. 

It’s Tim. Tim, sitting on the floor, Taco’s head on his knee as he idly scratches behind her left ear. He’s got his too-long hair tied back, strands falling into his eyes, and he’s wearing threadbare jeans and a Gotham Knights t-shirt, and Jason is struck dumb at the sight of him after all this time. 

“Hey, uh,” Tim says, clearing his throat. “Cass had to go and everyone else was busy, so she called me. Is that - is that okay?” 

Jason wipes his now-sweaty palms onto his jeans and hopes he doesn’t look as shaken as he feels. “Yeah. Uh, yeah. How is she?” 

Tim ducks his head, smiling at Taco. “Better. I cooked her some soft chicken and plain rice. I think it helped. Probably didn’t taste that great, I’m a shitty cook, but she didn’t exactly complain.” 

Jason collapses into a sitting position on the floor, running his hand over Taco’s belly. “Chicken and rice, huh? How’d you know to do that?” 

Tim shrugs. “I was home alone a lot as a kid, I watched a lot of Animal Planet. And -- I don’t know. I like dogs. I always wanted a pet.” 

There’s a soft sort of longing in Tim’s voice, like he’s talking about old hurts he hasn’t quite let go of, and Jason hates himself for how it tugs at his chest. 

“Thanks,” he says gruffly. 

“No problem. We had fun together, right, Nyota?” 

“Nyota?” Jason frowns. The name sounds familiar but he can’t exactly place it -- something from an old science fiction show, maybe, which would figure. 

“Taco is a terrible name for a dog, Jason.” 

Jason bristles. “Yeah, because Nyota is a name that really screams ‘perfect for a dog.’ You’re not my boyfriend, you can’t just rename my dog, asshole.” 

Tim looks away and they both fall silent, the air heavy with tension. “Right. I know that, I think you made yourself pretty clear on that one,” Tim says. 

There’s no intonation -- Jason knows this Tim, remembers hearing that voice in late night reports to Bruce. It’s the Tim that Tim becomes when the last thing he wants is anyone to guess at how he’s feeling. It’s the Tim that Tim becomes when he’s slipping away from you and into someone else, another one of his many masks and facades that he carries as easily as Jason does his knife, tucked securely into his utility belt. 

Jason blows out a breath and reins in the desire to punch it out of him. 

“Yeah, whatever, like you gave a shit.” 

“What makes you so sure I didn’t?” Tim is still looking away, purposefully avoiding Jason’s eyes, fingers idly picking at the carpet. Between them, Taco yawns and curls into herself.

Jason shakes his head, suddenly angry because who is _Tim_ to waltz into Jason’s home (ignores the voice that says it will never be his, always Barbara’s, and that Tim might just be a little more welcome than he ever could be) and re-name his dog and make himself out to be the wounded party here when Jason’s the one who’s been walking around scraped raw from wondering if their break-up even registered as a blip on Tim’s radar. 

“Did you get me that job at the center? Who’s idea was that, anyway? Bruce’s? Dick’s?” 

Tim stands, brushing the dog hair from his jeans, and fixes Jason with a glare. “It was mine. Well, mine and Cass’s. And I didn’t get you anything. You didn’t have to go out for the job when you read about it. Fiona didn’t have to hire you. If you sucked at it, she would have fired you by now.” 

It’s true, Jason knows it is, for all that he’s grinding his teeth at the circular Bat logic. Tim can be so much like Bruce sometimes -- the only thing that’s keeping Jason from running for the nearest therapist is that he’s always found this resemblance by and far the least attractive thing about Tim. 

What Tim is saying is true, sure, because he’s seen Fiona send quite a few employees packing for not showing the right dedication to the center and the kids. But he can’t help but feel like there’s something he’s missing here, a thread that will unravel if he keeps picking at it. 

“What are you playing at here, Tim?” 

Tim lets out a frustrated groan, running a hand through his hair and tugging it out of the elastic. “I’m not playing at anything, Jason. I heard about a job vacancy, you were right for the job, you got the job. Cass needed someone to take over for her to take care of your dog, here I am, I took care of your dog. I’m sorry if I - I don’t know, overstepped my bounds or something, but it’s not as if you talked to me long enough to explain the terms of separation here. You all but told me to fuck off, so I fucked off. I gave you your space.” 

Jason snorts. “Yeah, you gave me space while interfering with my life at the same time. Funny how that works.” 

“C’mon, how long have you been in this family? Weird interference is how we show we care. You know, the last time I came down with the flu, I caught Bruce sneaking in and out of my loft in the middle of the night like a creeper with tupperware containers of carrot-ginger soup.” 

“Do you?” Jason says, quiet. 

“What?” 

“Care.” 

Tim makes a strangled noise and Jason can’t decide if it’s from frustration or anger or something else because if there’s one thing he’s learning, it’s that maybe he didn’t have Tim quite as figured out as he thought he did. His eyes snap up to Tim, gaze intent. 

“You unbelievable asshole. Of course I care.” 

“I didn’t realize,” Jason says, hating how small his voice sounds. 

He’d spent so much time building up this idea in his head about Tim and how things had ended because he’d been so sure, and now as much as he aches to know that he was wrong all along, he’s just as shit-scared by the idea of it. Tim makes him vulnerable in ways that Jason promised himself he would never be vulnerable again. 

Too-small kid in a run-down building living off of scraps and stolen cans of beans and wondering where it all went wrong, and just when he thought he’d built something better for himself, it all got torn away from him, crashing in under the weight of his own trauma and the Joker’s downswing. There’s not a good thing in the world that Jason hasn’t had stripped away from him, and it’s left him angry, always angry and always on the edge, like a soldier in a foxhole waiting for the next round of enemy fire. 

Jason tugs at one of Taco’s ears idly, shoulders slumping. He’s bone deep weary in ways that can’t be quantified, and that look on Tim’s face that’s equal parts hopeful and pissed off isn’t something he’s prepared to deal with just yet. 

“Clearly,” Tim says. 

Jason frowns at how Tim is towering over him. It makes him feels small and inconsequential, and he wonders if this is how Tim feels all of the time. Probably not -- Tim’s always been able to turn himself into a giant of his own making. 

“You’re a real pain in the ass to figure out, you know that, Jason?” 

“Yeah, tell me something that I haven’t heard about half a fucking million times, why don’t you.” 

“All right, how’s this,” Tim says, and he sounds like he’s gearing up for something, clenching and unclenching his hands as he stares down at Jason. The weight of Tim’s pissiness could move mountains. “I regret that I just walked away from you.” 

Jason shakes his head. “I don’t.” 

He sees the tension bleed out Tim, sees him turn in on himself. “Fine. Just -- forget it. I’ll let myself out, then.” Tim makes for the window, undoing the latch and shoving the window up and open with a bang. 

“Tim, wait.” 

“What?” Tim snaps out, exasperated. 

“I don’t -- I don’t always see things as clearly as I’d like to, you know? I just. I don’t know, snap judgements. I’d blame it on the Lazarus but I think I’ve always been this special brand of shitbird.” Jason laughs, low and rough, because now _those_ are the words that should’ve gone on his gravestone. “You gotta give me time, every once in a while.” 

Tim pauses, both hands braced on the windowsill. “I’m not exactly the perfect picture of emotional health either, you know.” 

“Oh, believe me, I know _that_.”

“Shut up,” Tim says, but there’s laughter in his voice, and something tight in Jason finally starts to ease up, uncoil. 

“You should come by again sometime.” 

“Yeah?” Tim asks, a touch of uncertainty that Jason suddenly wants to shake out of him, an impulse that he shoves down. 

“Yeah,” Jason says, clearing his throat. “Well, you know, the dog likes you, I wouldn’t want a mutiny on my hands or anything.” 

“No, definitely not. The Taco Gods must be appeased.” 

“See, you gotta admit that it’s a good name.” 

“Nope,” Tim says, “I’ll do no such thing. So...I’ll see you around, Jason. _Nyota_.” 

“Hey!” Jason calls out. “What did I say, you’re not my boyfriend, Timbo, you don’t get to re-name the dog.” 

Tim makes a humming sound and Jason is hard-pressed not to think of the last time he’d heard Tim make that sound, mouth stretched wide around Jason’s cock with Jason’s hands tangled in his hair, Jason’s mouth running off garbled, nonsensical words that were too filthy to be a prayer but sounded like one all the same, and Tim is smirking at him like he knows exactly what Jason is thinking. 

“Not yet, anyways,” Tim says, before launching himself out the window, gone before Jason can say another word. 

“That little shit,” Jason grumbles, flopping all the way onto the floor, facing Taco. She leans forward and licks at his face, and Jason groans. “Gross, Taco, you’ve got vomit breath. What kind of manners are those, huh? What the hell kind of miscreant do you got raisin’ you, anyways?” 

Taco just stares at him, unimpressed. 

“Maybe I oughta get Alfred over here more often, get you a proper upper class education,” Jason says, scratching behind her ears. “Or Tim, I guess. Rich boy’s good at that shit, probably.” 

Taco barks at Tim’s name and Jason rolls his eyes. “Traitor. This is all your fault, y’know?” 

“Yeah, that’s right, Todd. Blame your dysfunctional love life on your dog because that’s completely balanced.” 

Taco gives him a look that can be best described as disdainful before lumbering to her feet and trotting off for the kitchen, where Jason can hear the clattering sound of her pushing her food bowl around the kitchen floor. He’s got to have the least subtle dog in the universe. 

Well, like owner, like pet, he guesses. 

Jason rolls over onto his back, staring up at the high ceilings of the Clocktower. Taco comes over and drops the food bowl on top of his face, and Jason curses, removing it to glare up at her. “Fucking _seriously_?” 

She just glares at him back. It’s a standoff and one he’s not gonna win. Jason heaves himself up from the ground, picking up the food bowl as he goes. “I let Red Robin back into my life, who’s gonna boss me around more, you or him? You’ll be gettin’ into fights over it.” 

But all things considered, well, it’s maybe not the worst thing in the world. Jason runs a hand over his eyes, shoulders shaking with laughter. 

“I guess that’s not so bad, huh?” 

Taco just barks, sharp and loud, and Jason shakes his head because the shit in his life, you just couldn’t make up. 

“Yeah. Not so bad at all.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [a simple plot (but i know one thing)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1393891) by [stitchingatthecircuitboard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchingatthecircuitboard/pseuds/stitchingatthecircuitboard)




End file.
